


Artistic Licence : Les parents

by cametobuyplums



Series: Artistic Licence [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Light Dom/sub, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Set in Paris, Smoking, Sugar Daddy Bucky, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cametobuyplums/pseuds/cametobuyplums
Summary: Once upon a time in Paris, there was an aspiring creative down on her luck. She hopes to make a name for herself in the city's intellectual scene. But between the wine and cigarettes, she loses her job only to be offered an unconventional offer from a handsome, wealthy man. What’s a beautiful young woman to do? Agree for James "Bucky" Barnes to be her Sugar Daddy, of course.ONE SHOT : James meets your parents. You try to keep your cool.





	Artistic Licence : Les parents

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, loves. Oh gosh, it’s been a while with this one, hasn’t it? Now, this is a requested one shot take place after the main story, but they aren’t set in a specific timeframe or impact the story as it were. I do hope you’ll enjoy reading and I can’t wait to hear what you think.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Specks of dust dance in the early morning light. Rays of sunshine filter through the scuffed windows. Yellowing beams and dark shadows on the scrubbed wooden floor. A dying cigarette balanced in a silver ashtray. The mid morning charm of Paris. A blissful soreness, you’re wrapped in it, wincing slightly as you bend to toss James’ clothes in the washing machine.

What started off innocently enough as James painting certainly didn’t remain that way for long. As is usually the case. Seemingly, you never tire of one another. Every moment together just as fuelled with a dizzying passion as the first. His muse still, he wanted to try out a new set of paintbrushes by painting you. A shiver, you remember the way the soft bristles felt on your skin.

The canvas in the corner of your apartment houses the beginning of a masterpiece. Careful strokes of those brushes, a few scratches of charcoal that are the markings of you. Unfinished. The white sheet spread across the centre of the floor, now,  _that_  is the true masterpiece. Splashes of colour. Blue handprints that belong to James. A pearly grey roundness that can only be your ass. Less discernible body parts, but distinguishable nonetheless. All too evident of just how  _creative_  you both were mere hours ago.

A clean, fresh scent courtesy of a Tom Ford soap bar that has a place of pride beside your own. A chest chiselled by careful hours in the gym, dampening the back of your blouse. You sigh, eyes fluttering as James runs his hands up your arms. You don’t bother to suppress your shiver when he places a kiss under your ear.

“James.”

“Yeah, babygirl?”

“I need to wash your shirt, otherwise you’ll have blue handprints on it forever.”

“Mm, I could live with that. It’s Fashion Week soon, right?”

“I’m not sure Maria Grazia Chiuri will appreciate a bright blue stain of my hands squeezing your chest.”

James rumbles with every chuckle. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, no doubt the memory of you moaning as you couldn’t help but squeeze his pectorals replaying vividly in his mind, too. Embarrassment heats your cheeks, but you smile all the same. You bite down harshly on your lip when he kisses down your neck.

“I’d wear that shirt with pride and you know it.”

Any semblance of agreement or playful teasing dies away in favour of a gasp. James nips at the sensitive skin of your neck. Tongue soothing over the sting as his hands grip you by the hips and he has your head spinning. That rough, dominant side of him you love so much. The hard press of his cock against your ass and you whimper, such a simple motion and already, you’re so wet.

“Such pretty noises, princess,” he murmurs in your skin. “ _Fuck_ , gets me so hard every time.”

“ _James_ ,” you mewl with a grind of your hips. “We only  _just_  took a shower.”

A dark chuckle as he spins you round. Blue eyes already swimming with renewed desire. A dip of his head, your lips captured by his and you all but melt against him. The scratch of his beard, the one you adore so much. Fingers card through it, trail up to his fluffy hair and a sharp yank results in a low growl that has heat pooling in your belly.

“You know I can’t get enough of you. I love you.”

“Not bad for an old man. But, I love you, too.”

That playful tease that’s as much a joke as it is a challenge. James’ eyes flash with mischief, legs parted wide and it takes all your restraint not to let your eyes wander to his hard cock. Whatever plan he has interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. He groans, makes no effort to move.

“James, the door.”

“Whoever it is can wait,” he says gruffly. “You’re busy.”

“It’s Loki,” you whine as he pulls you flush to his chest. “He was going to come by to pick up his parcel.”

A sudden gleam in James’ eyes. Mirth and mischief. You know he has a cheeky streak and whilst you’d normally encourage it, you eye him wearily as he draws back from your grip. A hand smooths through his mussed hair. Shoulders rolled back and abdomen clenched tight. Torn between amusement and concern, you warn him, but of course, he does as he pleases because he’s  _James_.

A sharp spank and you squeak much to James’ amusement, his chuckles loud as he swaggers to the door, still naked. You’re biting back giggles. There’s no denying how handsome he looks, chest still glistening with a few drops of water. Thick cock standing hard and proud. Perhaps his flirtatious advances towards Loki are merely for amusement, but you’re certain your friend will approve all the same. If his brain doesn’t melt, that is. James merely grins mischievously, blue eyes briefly flickering down to his hard cock as he wraps a hand around the doorknob.

“Hello, handsome. Here for a package?”

“James Barnes?”

“Obadiah Stane?”

“Dad?”

“Honey?”

“Mother?”

* * *

 

The four of you together, you stony faced and your father equally so, his eyes carefully avoiding Bucky and the floral satin robe that barely covers him. Stretched taut across his chest and a little too snug to close fully. Short too, and your eyes flash warningly. A quick glance reveals it’s almost come undone, flashing all too much and he subtly pulls the satin back over his crotch. Shifts slightly so he’s sitting as composed as he can in the armchair. Your mother purses her lips. He idly remembers the few clothes he has stowed in your wardrobe. He wishes he’d had a chance to put those on.

Four espressos. One you press into his palm and two you prod across the coffee table. You throw back your own. Bucky’s surprised, pleasantly so. Space on the couch yet you perch on the armchair with him. He’s certainly not scared of your parents, but he never imagined meeting them in such circumstances. A hand on your thigh, a squeeze to reassure you.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Barnes,” booms Obadiah. “Especially while you’re defiling my daughter.”

“ _Dad_!”

“Well, Mr. Stane,” laughs Bucky. “I can promise I’ve not done anything she didn’t want.”

“ _James_!”

“That’s one way to make an impression on your girlfriend’s parents.”

“I think we can both agree I already made an impression. Five years ago.”

Nelson, Murdock and Barnes’ first client. A wealthy businessman, one who thought he had found himself three lawyers he could easily bend to his will. A bit of a surprise when Bucky stood his ground, dared to defy him and as a result, won what was quite easily one of the firm’s best contracts. He knew nothing of you then. You most likely knew nothing of him either.

A change of name, you explain. Right before you moved to Paris. No longer wanting to live in the shadow of your father’s reputation. Not that you’re ashamed of him, but you needed to forge an identity of your own. One that’s unmarred by expectations.

Obadiah stands, hands deep in his pockets as he strolls around your small apartment. A place Bucky has grown to love. One that your father is less than impressed by. He tells you as much. You retort that you couldn’t care less. He stops at the white sheet by your mattress. Eyes drifting over the revealing body prints stained on it. You quirk a brow, daring your father to make a comment even though your face heats up with embarrassment. A disgruntled sigh is thankfully all Bucky receives.

“So,” asks your mother serenely. “How did you two meet?”

“At the  _Académie_ ,” you answer truthfully. “James enjoys creativity, too.”

“Turns out all I needed was a little inspiration,” he grins, squeezing your thigh again. “She’s something of my muse.”

“Muse, huh.”

Obadiah’s voice echoes as he runs a meaty finger down the Diorama bag on your bookshelf. A pointed glance in the direction of not one, but two empty bottles of champagne by the kitchen sink. Bucky’s Cartier watch on the desk. No doubt, your father is rather unconvinced. A grimace he doesn’t even bother to conceal.

“Why don’t we go out for lunch?” he says, a command more than a request. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Barnes?”

You protest immediately, but Bucky shushes you with a quick kiss. It’s only small, chaste, but it raises your father’s eyebrows and sparks a smile on your mother’s face. You open your mouth to protest once more but Bucky’s already on his feet.

“I’d love to join you for lunch,” he says in a tone he normally only graces business meetings with. “It’ll be just like old times.”

Obadiah’s expression shifts. Irksome and irritated, chest swelling and Bucky’s prepared for an eruption. He knows his oldest client far better than he’s given credit for. Yet, it doesn’t come. No, he’s merely met with a sneer. It’s only when the front door slams shut do you tell Bucky that the robe has come undone.

* * *

 

A breath you had no idea you’d been holding in. You exhale loudly enough for James’ brows to furrow in concern, his hands cupping your arms soothingly. It’s almost comical. James. Handsome, intelligent, wealthy James with his fluffy hair and full beard. His muscles stretching your floral robe. You haven’t the energy to laugh, not when your father’s had an eyeful.

You’re still insistent that James needn’t accompany you. Truthfully, you’re still reeling that he’s done business with your father. Full of excuses, all of which he easily talks you out of. He can feel your pulse racing, see the nerves that cloud your eyes as he cups your face. A reassurance, one that you argue against because it’s your  _parents_. You’ve been with James long enough to establish a more serious commitment to your relationship. You still set store by your own rules, of course. Having lunch with your parents, though. That seems to step into new and terrifying territory.

James presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Another under your ear. Yet more down your neck. The brush of his lips on your skin almost  _intimate_  in feel. A clever ploy to weaken your resolve. Not that you have much when it comes to him. Soft murmurs spoken into the crook of your neck. The rays of sunshine that filter through the window, they’re all the more warmer now. James’ skin golden as he sheds the robe, presses you to the kitchen counter again and your head spins with deja vu.

“James, we only have an hour.” you whimper, melting into his touch.

“ _Only_  an hour?” he teases, eyes alight with charm. “C’mon, princess. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the time I- “

“I remember that just fine, thank you.”

James chuckles darkly. Hands on your hips, he roughly turns you around, your fingers flying to the scrubbed wooden worktop to steady yourself. Breath hitching and pulse quickening, you let him rid you of your shorts, stepping out of your panties in an eagerness that betrays your earlier protests. You’re aflame with desire, body thrumming with anticipation as his hand traces a path up your calf. A low growl from James. A squeak from you when he parts your legs. Your forearms flat on the worktop. Ass in the air. He kneels just beneath you.

“So wet already, princess,” he groans. “Can’t fuckin’ wait to get my mouth on this pretty little pussy.”

Heated kisses pepper of the back of your thighs. A teasing fan of his breath at your core. You whine in desperation.

“ _Please_ , James,” you beg, breathless so soon. “Don’t tease. Please.  _Sir_?”

“Such a good girl for me.”

“ _James_!”

A sharp cry of his name as he all but buries his face in your damp folds, groaning filthily as you shudder delightfully. It’s inexplicably  _hot_. Dirty, almost,  _taboo_  even. But,  _God_ , does James know how to ravish you with pleasure. Every flick of his tongue a throb in your core. Every glide of his finger over your clit a lick of heat. Every scratch of his beard a delicious burn. He moans, the sound a shockwave that ripples through you and you’re so  _dizzy_ , drowning in his hungry, blissful groans.

Pleasure builds. Heat pools thick and fast low in your tummy. Walls flutter around nothing. Rationality ebbs away. Raw desire seeps in. You’re so  _close_. Skin pricking and nerves singing for James. A breathless mewl. A wordless warning that you’re  _right_   _there_ , so  _close_  to being consumed by sweet ecstasy and then it’s  _snatched_  from you.

On the precipice of pleasure and James just  _stops_. A disappointed whine resounds around your apartment, an incredulous expression on your face and he has the nerve to smirk. Calm and collected, even when he’s hard himself, the wet tip of his cock resting against his stomach.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he says sweetly. “Your parents’ll be waiting for us.”

 _Your_   _parents_. You’d forgotten all about them. You’d forget about them all over again if James promises to finish what he started. He shakes his head, your arousal damp in his beard. You reach for him, fingers ready to wrap around his hard length because you’re not afraid to play dirty but he knows you too well. Strong fingers encircle your wrist. A wolfish glimmer in his eyes that darken as he backs you up against the worktop.

“Be a good girl for me, princess,” he growls, words dripping with sex and it’s  _unbearable_ , the throb of your clit. “And when we get back home, I’ll make you come until you’re beggin’ me to stop.”

You pout in response. He smirks and it’s nothing short of devilish. He taunts you with a grind of his cock, friction where you crave it so desperately but it’s short and fleeting, leaving you to wallow in the agony of your heat.

“Be a good girl,” he warns. “And go get dressed.”

* * *

 

Le Cinq. A beautiful Michelin star restaurant of James’ suggestion. Warm and intimate. Spacious, bright and it’s almost as if you’re dining in your own private chateau. Opulent gold and grey decoration. Your footsteps muffled by the Regency style carpet as you’re lead to a table, James’ hand planted just above the curve of your ass. He’s impeccably handsome as always. A dark shirt with a floral pattern, black pants and a black jacket. Opera pumps, too, for a distinguished look. Even the spare clothes he keeps in your wardrobe are suave.

It’s almost deja vu. The memory of dinner with Thor in Monaco. Except, this time it’s  _you_  that’s on tenterhooks, courtesy of your father. No doubt, there’s judgement and disapproval in his eyes as you eagerly snatch up your glass. Dutifully, you ignore him in favour of the wine. Some might call it liquid courage. That’s too kind. You call it a buffer zone, your father more tolerable when you’ve had a glass or two.

You start. James’ hand slipping under the table and curling over your thigh. A smile, one that’s both calm and domineering. It puts you at ease though, shoulders relaxing as he orders for you the way he always does. Grilled white asparagus, followed by line-fished seabass with buttermilk, marinated wild strawberries and coriander sorbet for dessert. Your mother merely smiles to herself. Your father is less than pleased.

It’s strange to think James has crossed paths with your family before. Surreal sitting here with him now. Certainly calmer than you. He makes conversation and it’s not forced small talk. Genuine politeness and perhaps it’s his brazenness that you appreciate most. His unwillingness to play the meek boyfriend desperate to gain approval. There’s an air of measured ease about him. His stance is one of power but he’s not closed off or arrogant. No, you recognise the cues of James Barnes the lawyer.

And even as conversation takes the inevitable turn, your parents rather pointedly asking you of what’s become of your life since you ran away to Paris, you can see a lopsided grin on James’ face. Lazy circles traced over your thigh. You tell them of your freelance photography. Lazy circles that trail higher. You grit out that you’ve secured a position with Alexander Pierce.

“It must be paying well,” comments your father. “Considering the fancy handbags on your shelf.”

“Actually, they were gifts,” you correct him, refusing to take the bait. “From James.”

“What can I say?” smiles James, fingers dipping under the hem of your dress. “I love spoiling her. Right, babygirl?”

A quiet gasp. Your fingers tighten around your wine glass as James ghosts his fingers over your panties, stopping just short of bringing you any real pleasure. It’s  _wildly_  inappropriate but that only serves to arouse you more. Any response you had dies away as you cling to your composure. You nod fervently and luckily your mother smiles.

“I think it’s sweet,” she trills, a hand on your father’s arm. “You obviously care for her and I can see she loves you. Oh, are those wedding bells I hear?”

You choke on your wine. Your father’s grip suddenly veers and his knife screeches against his china plate. Your mother, however, is unperturbed. She watches wistfully as James hands you a glass of water, ensuring you’re alright but before he can even answer, she continues her little tirade. An additional comment of how she eagerly awaits grandchildren and it’s all you can do to not let mineral water spray out your nose.

“ _Mother_.”

“What?” she cries. “It’s not as if you’re getting any  _younger_. And neither is James, no offence.”

“It’s alright,” smiles James, fondly shaking his head. “I promise you, Mrs. Stane, you’ll be the first to know.”

Appeased for the time being, your mother turns back to her plateful of duck. But the subject is far from settled, your father choosing that exact moment to stick his oar in.

“That would be something, wouldn’t it?” he muses, his thoughtful voice borders on stubborn aggravation. “After all, the last I heard of you James, you were engaged. Russian, wasn’t she?”

You shoot a glare in your father’s direction. It’s all too obvious what he’s playing at. You’ve no care for it. The matter of his ex-fiancée put to bed that fateful day you met her. Neither you nor James has looked back since. A glance at him reveals a pink stain on his cheeks. He holds your father’s gaze over the rim of his wine glass. A nonchalant sip.

“Natasha Romanoff,” answers James in a tone that suggests he’s not ashamed. “We both wanted different things from life. And now, I have everything I want.”

A smugness you dare not conceal. Your cheeks smarts from his quick peck, the ghost of his lips curved in a content smile.

“Everything you want,” repeats your father in a dull tone. “And you, honey? Is this everything  _you_  want?”

“I’m happy,” you say quietly. “This is exactly what I want.”

James still refuses to cater to your father’s every whim. There’s no reassurance that he’s treating you right, no desperate plea to be approved. He’s purposeful with his words, reminding him that your relationship is of your choosing. He loves you but you still focus on your career, your friendships, you personal space. At least, you think that’s what he says. Brain beginning to blank again when James resumes his masterful teasing and heat engulfs your body.

“You make it sound like a lot of work.” remarks your father dryly.

“Loving her? No, she makes it easy,” grins James, slyly pushing your panties aside. “A relationship? Yeah, I’d say it’s work. It’s about care and compromise.”

A harsh bite of your lip, a moan rises in your throat. James sinks a finger into your wet heat.

“It’s about knowing exactly what they need,” he drawls, voice lowering a decibel. “But, not always giving in.”

Your eyes flutter. An angry hot flush prickles at your skin. James cruelly pulling back and dropping his napkin with gusto. A duck of his head under the table, he holds your gaze with a great show of licking his finger clean. You seethe. Frustrated beyond belief, you throw your own napkin down and mutter about being excused.

A cold splash of water does little to help. You’re burning up. Desire coiled tight and you consider disobeying James, willing to accept however he’ll punish you with the knowledge that it’s not a punishment, not really. Not when it excites you beyond belief. And then there’s footsteps. The scrape of a lock. James appears behind you. His reflection dark and lust swims in his eyes. Without so much as a warning, he spins you around to face him. A husky growl as he crashes his lips down on yours.

You surrender. Let him claim you with a rough kiss. Dizzy you when he sets you atop the sink. He’s frantic, bunches your dress above your waist and pulls your panties aside. A delighted groan at how you’re so slick with want. A whispered plea of his name. Your moan muffled by another searing kiss as he buries himself deep. James inhales sharply.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, stilling to revel at the feel of you. “So fucking  _tight_. Feel so good around my cock.”

His name is on the tip of your tongue. Drowned out by a whimper as he wordlessly sets a fast pace. Rough and unrelenting. Straddling the fine line between pleasure and pain. But you  _crave_  it.  _Need_  it. Desperately holding on to James’ shoulders as he all but  _ruins_  you. A bruising kiss that consumes you. Every thrust a delicious sting and you can feel your whole body overheating. White hot flames of pleasure devour you, the release you’ve been  _aching_  for so  _close_  and you only manage a whisper of James’ name before you crash.

Bliss that overtakes you until you’re numb to anything but the ecstasy. That addicting fullness you’ve only ever felt with  _James_. You mewl, moaning softly as he fucks you through your orgasm and it’s so  _intense_ , you’re over sensitive and an utter  _wreck_. Clutching James and purring as he comes. A delighted shiver as warmth floods you. Gasping when he pulls out.

A salacious smirk greets you. His breath no more laboured than yours. The small bathroom hot and heavy. He tuts when you reach for the basket of hand towels. Chuckles wickedly when you shakily cite you need to clean up.

“I don’t think so, princess,” he says lowly, pulling your panties back into place. “You’re gonna go back to the table just like this.”

You squirm. Burn hot under his fierce gaze. His eyes flicker down as he straightens your dress. A quick dart of his tongue along the seam of his lips. All too aware of the mess he’s made and how can you can  _feel_  it. A glance in the mirror, and he leads you out the bathroom. It’s as if you’re in a dream. A daze like bubble and it takes a gentle push from James to lead you through the tables.

It’s so  _dirty_. The feel of your slick and his release. How ever you’ll sit through dessert with your parents is beyond you. Thankfully, you seem to avoid suspicion. Hushed chatter and the clang of cutlery. Patrons too busy with their own lives to take notice of yours. The call of James’ name and he raises a hand in acknowledgment. You flush as his lips brush your ear.

“Be a good girl for me, princess, go back to the table,” he murmurs. “And don’t you dare start dessert without me.”

“ _James_.” you choke out. “Why- “

“Why am I doin’ this?” he finishes for you, chuckling again. “You’ve been a bad girl, princess. You forgotten already? I told you before we left,  _you’re not allowed to come ‘til we get back home._ ”

A sharp pinch of your ass and James leaves to greet a client. A formality. He winks in your direction and you scuttle back to the table, face burning as you ease into your chair. A bowl of wild strawberries and coriander sorbet awaits you. Much to your father’s chagrin, you insist on waiting for James to return. He does so in a timely fashion. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Fearful that you’ll give yourself away. Nevertheless, he notes how you squirm in an attempt to not make any more of a mess. All too conscious of how  _soaked_  your panties are. You almost topple out of your chair when he leans over.

“When we get home,” he whispers. “I’m gonna tear you apart, babygirl.”

Dessert is a blur. James drags it out, ordering coffee and dessert wines. You barely register any of it, conversation falling deaf to your ears. Busying yourself with your espresso, it’s only when your father motions at the wait staff do you finally shake yourself free of your stupor. James has already taken care of the check and whilst your mother positively beams at what a courteous gentleman he is, your father scoffs and throws a few notes down on the table.

A breath of fresh air. Goodbyes that are all too hurried. Your father’s convinced it’s an attempt to free yourself of them and for once, you simply smile weakly. James’ hand on your lower back demands all your focus. A firm handshake with your father. He stands his ground. Kisses your mother’s cheeks genially. And then, finally, you’re left alone on a street in Paris, mind a foggy mess as he smirks at you. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his and you visibly tremble.

“You dirty little girl,” he grins wolfishly. “Can’t wait to get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


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